Touch
by ninemuses
Summary: There are some things Alex doesn't know how to ask.


**Author's notes:** From a prompt I received on Tumblr from maddieland-senpai: "head scratches"

* * *

Sometimes Alex wonders how Nicolas can stand to sleep in that chair. Why he doesn't get a bed, or even a narrow cot. In the beginning, she thought he'd slept on the couch, that she'd usurped his place when she came to stay with them. Another imposition she brought with her.

When she brings it up with Worick, though, he shakes his head. "No, Ally. He doesn't sleep on the couch. He's never slept on the couch." When his reply clearly fails to satisfy her, he adds, "Be glad he's not sleeping on the floor." There's something in his words. Something hard and dark. Alex wonders at it, even as she shies away at the implications. There's so much about these men she doesn't know. So much.

And even so, she can't help but wonder if she's ready to find out.

It doesn't make sense. Nicolas may not be as big a man _physically_ as his presence may imply, but it can't be comfortable in that chair. It can't. Sometimes she wakes up with a kink in her neck from sleeping on the _couch_.

One afternoon he finds him in the chair, curled up, legs tucked and sword resting on his shoulder. There's an ugly bruise on his temple, cuts and scratches disappearing into his hair. Another remnant from another Handyman job. Do they ever get tired of it? Do the things they do wear them down the same way the things she used to do did?

She doesn't know. Maybe she'll never know. Some questions she finds difficult to ask. That's even assuming they'd answer, and she's not sure they would. Nicolas brushes off her questions half the time and Worick…Worick deflects. Changes the subject. Tries to distract her. Thinks she doesn't notice what he's doing.

Thinks she doesn't notice that he's deflecting her questions more and more these days.

Something is coming. A storm, maybe. The weather report on the radio said as much. But something else beside that. Something more. Something bad. Alex feels it in her bones and doesn't know what to do. How to prepare.

Nicolas makes a sound in his sleep, interrupting her thoughts. A murmur, a groan—Alex isn't sure. It doesn't matter. She reaches out a hand anyway and touches his brow. Feels the furrows with her fingertips. What does he dream of? Is it a nightmare? It certainly can't be a good dream, not with the expression he's making.

Before she can think better of it, Alex moves her fingers to his temple, lightly feeling the bruise. The skin feels hot, slightly swollen to the touch.

Nicolas shifts and Alex freezes, torn between tearing her hand away and keeping it there. If he wakes him to find her touching him…she's not sure it'll go well.

But what if it doesn't? What then?

Alex winces at the turn her thoughts take. She should stop this. What is she doing?

But he settles again and the furrows in his brow ease. Alex moves her fingers away from the wound, the only injury he sustained from that last job, and brushes his hair away from the shallow cuts. Her nails drag lightly over his scalp.

She really should have been more careful.

Nicolas starts awake, peaceful expression vanishing under the weight of watchful tension. Alex recoils. She pulls her hand away and hides it behind her back. Idiot, she chides herself. Idiot.

He doesn't explode out of the chair, though. Not in the way she expected. Instead, Nicolas stays there, coiled and waiting. No, he doesn't explode but he could. He could, if she says and does the wrong thing.

Alex wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Do—do you want to clean that up?" She gestures to his temple. With her other hand. The one not hidden behind her back.

Nicolas regards her silently for a moment but he shakes his head.

"Are you sure? It looks like—"

He shakes his head again, more sharply this time.

Alex presses her lips together. Stubborn. "You should at least disinfect those cuts," she says. It's petty. It's not like those cuts are going to kill him. And despite all the injuries he's sustained in the time she's known him, Nicolas has never stayed down longer than a day or two. It's unnerving.

But still.

Still.

Nicolas gestures with his free hand, slicing through the air. "You should cook dinner."

Alex narrows her eyes. "You want to eat my cooking?" she asks suspiciously. Doesn't he think the food she prepares is "so-so?"

He lifts one shoulder up in a shrug. "You need practice."

She feels her hackles rise, her cheeks puffing out in frustration in spite of herself. "Forget it!" she snaps and spins on her heel, stomping up the stairs.

Even as she does, she knows it won't last long. Eventually, she'll come back down to start making dinner. Nicolas will be more awake then—properly awake, not jolted awake by a woman touching his head while he slept. Maybe he'll be doing sit-ups. At some point, Worick will return home from wherever he's gone and then they'll eat together. A comfortable meal, although one filled with things left unasked and unsaid.

And throughout it all, Alex will not wonder why, _why_ , Nicolas has been taking lessons from Worick and begun to change the subject himself.


End file.
